For two whole days, Jake lay in bed, not saying a word. I'd try apologizing, prompting him to get some food, explore the city with me. I even told him he could do anything he wanted to get back at me. But instead, he lay there, not moving, not saying anything. Not doing anything at all.

He had given up on life because of me.

I remembered when he tried to hang himself when he was 13. He was in such a low place, wanting to never see the people at school again, wanting to kill them. He was so angry and violent and I was so worried. One day, we got jumped by some older 'mans who beat the shit out of us, my parents considered moving. I told him that and that night, he tried hanging himself.

After the 72 hour psychological watch, I saw him in the hospital. He was so happy to see me; he looked like a kid who saw his Dad return from a war. But all I could do was hit him. I punched him straight in the mouth. He looked wounded, like I'd betrayed him. I hugged and squeezed him in my arms, crying.

"Don't you dare leave me, Jake. Don't you dare leave me alone without you," I had said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just... I couldn't live without you. Not after everything that's happened this year."

It wasn't an easy year from him. He told his parents that he wanted the surgery to become a fur and met their initial fury and disappointment, beaten up in gym, constantly picked on.

But I still told him off.

"Jake, you're my best friend... What would I do without you? I won't ever leave you. I promise you, as long you don't give up on life, I'll be here for you. We're friends, remember?"

After a couple hugs and tears and apologies, we were back to normal. I remembered that night when I tried to sleep.

I was desperate for my best friend back. I couldn't face the world without him. Even if I couldn't have him, I wanted to have him by my side.

Back in Paris, it was two in the morning and I sat up straight in my sleeping bag in the hall. I knew how to patch things up between us. I knew how to make things right.

* * *

The smell wafted through the room from our little kitchenette. I poured the liquid and noodles into a bowl and set in on a tray. Carrying the tray over by the bed, I set it on the night stand before shaking Jake.

"Jake, get up," I said sternly.

He didn't move.

"Jake Carter, you sit your ass up in this bed."

He begrudgingly did so. Unceremoniously, I put the tray on his lap.

"Eat," I commanded.

He looked form the soup to me, going back and forth like it was some cruel joke that he didn't get. "What is this?" he asked.

"Chicken noodle soup."

"What do you mean, chicken noodle soup?"

"You put some motherfucking chicken and some motherfucking noodles and some motherfucking water into a motherfucking pot. Motherfucking chicken noodle soup, motherfucker."

That did get a laugh out of him. "I... I know, but why? Why the soup?"

"Remember when I was really sick and you made me soup? I'm doing the same for you."

Jake shook his head and I saw a tear fall.

"Jake?" I asked.

"I didn't think you remembered that," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes before they completely formed.

"I never forgot it, Jake. You showed me how much you cared for me that day. I've been trying to make it up to you ever since."

He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly, still crying at my simple gesture.

"Thanks, Brent," he said.

"And listen, I'm really sorry about what I said. I didn't mean to hurt you. I never wanted to. I was just stupid that night."

"Just that night?" he smirked.

"Don't press your luck. Now eat your soup, it's getting cold."

He raised the spoon to his lips and took a sip, spitting it back out immediately.

"What'd you do to this soup?" he asked.

"I cooked it."

"In what? A sheep's stomach?"

"The pot that was over here."

"Did you at least clean the pot out?"

"Oh..."

"Idiot!" Jake yelled, laughing at me.

* * *

Things were still a little tense around Jake. I kept paying for him and apologizing and doing everything I could for him. It's probably why I don't remember much of the Louvre. I know we went there... And not much else.

Finally he snapped.

"Brent, look, I know you're trying to make it up to me, but I'm a grown man. I can do things on my own."

My ear went flat against my head.

"Sorry, I just... I still feel awful."

He punched me in the gut. I dropped to my knees and groaned.

"Still feel awful?"

"No..."

"Stop apologizing every few minutes, stop fussing over me. I forgive you. It's time for things to get back to normal."

And that's what happened.